By then we were well away from the ridge, and I rode on shakily until I caught up with the trooper walking his lame horse. By a stroke of luck we came across Hroudland very soon afterwards. He was out with a score of cavalrymen, checking on his patrols.
As soon as the count heard what had happened, he went galloping off at full tilt, hoping to catch the hidden attackers before they left the scene.
But it was too late. He returned some hours later, riding up to our camp at the head of his men, faces covered in dust, their horses lathered and weary. His first words were, ‘Patch, you were lucky. We found marks up on the ridge where a lever was used to dislodge the rocks. But the enemy was gone.’
‘What about the trooper who was knocked off the track?’ I asked.
‘A mangled corpse. One of my men clambered down to take a look. All blood and broken bones.’ He swung himself down from the saddle and walked over to the campfire, his face serious. ‘Tomorrow I’ll call the men together and warn them to be more on their guard.’
‘Any sign of a village where the attackers could have come from?’ asked Berenger, who had been scouting out on our left flank.
The count shook his head.
‘If there had been, I’d have got the truth out of them.’
Then I noticed something odd. One of Hroudland’s riders had come back with an extra brunia tied to his saddle which, I presumed, he had salvaged from the corpse of the dead man. A brunia was a costly piece of equipment and most of the mailed jackets worn by the men were on loan from the royal armoury; it seemed strange that the mysterious assailants had not stayed long enough to plunder their victim.
Chapter Sixteen
THE AMBUSH AND THE TROOPER’S death cast a shadow over our advance. We were still in Vascon land, yet to enter Saracen territory. So we should have had a peaceful journey because the Vascons were Christians like ourselves. Instead with every mile we travelled, we were met with increasing hostility. The Vascons hid their stores of food, blocked or polluted wells, and if we asked directions, they sent us in the wrong direction. Hroudland had begun drinking heavily again and, in keeping with the prickly mood of our troops, he became erratically aggressive and surly. When we reached the Vascon capital at Pamplona, he proposed to Eggihard that the army should storm and ransack the city to repay the Vascons for all the trouble they had caused us. The city walls were still as derelict as when I had seen them on my way to Brittany; they would not have withstood a determined assault. Eggihard bluntly told the count that the army had come to Hispania to assist the rebel Saracens, not plunder the Vascons, and there was a blazing row between them. Hroudland stormed out of the meeting and rode away with his vanguard, leaving the main army to fend for itself.
With Hroudland in such an ugly mood I made a habit of keeping out of his way as we pushed on to Zaragoza. I was thinking about Osric and wondering what had happened to him. It was three months since I had given him his freedom and left him with Wali Husayn. Part of me hoped that he had been able to leave Zaragoza and return to the place where he had grown up, but another part of me was looking forward to meeting him again. I had come to appreciate that nothing had replaced his companionship since the days when King Offa had sent me into exile. I suppose that I was falling victim to long-delayed feelings of loneliness. No longer having Osric by my side had made me realize just how much I had relied on him as a mentor and a confidant, and so I eagerly anticipated our meeting and the renewal of trust that it would bring.
With this in mind I rode ahead of everyone else during the final few miles of our approach to Zaragoza, through the orchards that surrounded the city. After several days of uncomfortably hot sunshine, the sky had partially clouded over and a slight breeze made the morning pleasantly cool. I had decided to put on full armour, helmet and brunia, and was carrying my battle shield and sword, hoping to impress any herald that Husayn would send out to welcome us, for the wali would surely know of the approach of Hroudland’s vanguard, even if Eggihard and the main force lagged several days behind.
Riding through the lines of plum and orange trees, I was reminded of the day I had first come there with Wali Husayn after our journey through the mountains. We had used the very same track for I recognized a small wooden bridge that crossed one of the many irrigation channels. Now, of course, the trees were in full leaf, their fruit nearly ripe, and there was just enough breeze to gently sway the laden branches. I was happy and relaxed as I rode, turning over in my mind what I might discuss with Wali Husayn. I hoped there would be the chance to share another pleasant evening meal beside the reflecting pool in his palace. All around me the orchards were very quiet except for the croaking of several ravens that circled over me. I saw no one. The hoof beats of my horse, the same nervous mare that had saved my life, were muffled by the soft earth between the fruit trees. I savoured the calm and stillness, glad to be clear of Hroudland and his snappish temper. He and his escort of riders would be at least a mile behind me. I felt an unexpected surge of pride at the idea that after two months’ march from Brittany, I would be the first person in the army to sight Zaragoza.